


let me do it right for once, for the record

by dappledawndrawn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, I mean probably everyone is happier at the end than the beginning but I make no other promises, M/M, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, NOTHING INAPPROPRIATE, Past Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Past Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Post-Canon, Scott McCall is a Ray of Sunshine, Weddings, at least as of now idk, but if that's not your bag you've been warned, everyone is of age and imbibes responsibly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dappledawndrawn/pseuds/dappledawndrawn
Summary: I intended to post this as one chapter but I want to get at least part of it out before tonight's episode airs so I can at least CLAIM it's canon compliant, on the off chance we get some Sterek-y stuff tonight.Completely un-betaed and lightly proofread. I'll edit in the next few days, I'm sure, but like I said - this just needs to get posted.





	let me do it right for once, for the record

**Author's Note:**

> I intended to post this as one chapter but I want to get at least part of it out before tonight's episode airs so I can at least CLAIM it's canon compliant, on the off chance we get some Sterek-y stuff tonight.
> 
> Completely un-betaed and lightly proofread. I'll edit in the next few days, I'm sure, but like I said - this just needs to get posted.

Three years after Stiles leaves Beacon Hills, his phone buzzes so hard it falls off the chipped Formica edge of his kitchen counter and he fishes it off the floor to see a flood of messages from Scott:

 

**> > SHE'S BACK**

**> > STILES**

**> > SHE'S BACK**

**> > STILES KIRA CAME HOME**

 

Scott's in tears when he answers the phone, and Stiles hasn't missed Beacon Hills like this in… Almost two years, now. He goes home for winter holidays, Dad comes out to Quantico at midsummer for his mom's birthday, and Scott shows up every month or two to spend a weekend on his couch. But this is the first time in ages he's truly, viscerally wanted to be back in that hellmouth of a town, and it makes his chest ache.

 

He's dabbing at the corners of his eyes with the heel of his palm when Scott asks "When can you get off? Can you come home and see her?"

 

"Week after next, I promise buddy. Is she there?"

 

"Not yet, she's on her way. Will you-"  
 

"I'll stay on the phone. You hang up the minute she gets there, though." Stiles laughs.

 

"I'll probably just drop the phone." Scott admits, and something warm and painful twists in Stiles chest.

 

They've been talking for thirty-six minutes when the phone crashes like it's hit the ground and Scott disappears without a trace. Stiles waits another minute, just to make sure it's not a false alarm, and then hangs up. It hurts less than he expected. _Kira's home_ , he thinks, then whispers it out loud, in the dark, just to try it on for size. He falls asleep smiling.

 

\--

 

Two years later he's back in Beacon Hills, standing in a stiff, rented tux inside a church none of them have ever attended with any sincerity. But it doesn't matter, because Scott's sweating bullets and the doors at the end of the aisle are creaking open. He drops a palm on his best friend's shoulder and squeezes as Mr. Yukimura leads Kira into the room. He can feel Scott's chest drop in a dry sob under his hand - she's stunning, in silvery-white lace, but more than that, she's practically glowing with happiness.

 

She might actually be glowing. Melissa, dressed in dusky purple in the front row, is looking a little nervous about it.

 

It's all disgustingly cute, watching their old history teacher very solemnly pass his daughter's hand over to Scott, who looks like he might faint. Across the aisle from Melissa, Noshiko is watching with something like sadness, something like pride. Stiles pulls his hand back from Scott's shoulder and then clasps them together in front of him, suddenly uncertain what to do.

 

It's not much of a service, but there's something holy in the way Scott and Kira can't keep their eyes off each other, the way they brush knuckles every few moments, the way they giggle whenever things seem just a little too serious. He locks eyes with Lydia, standing over on the bridesmaids' side, a few times - they haven't seen each other much, since the breakup, but he knows she moved back to Beacon Hills, like Isaac, like Liam, like Mason, like Corey, all of them beside him as groomsmen. She's changed. Her hair's an angular bob, her eyeliner is sharply winged instead of softly smudged. She's still beautiful, he thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind. But now she looks as untouchable as she's always felt. (Still, she catches him wiping a tear and smiles, a little soft, and he thinks maybe time really will undo all the hurt they put on each other.)

 

\--

 

Three hours later he's pleasantly hazy, tie loose around his neck, fresh off the party bus. "My _wife_ , Stiles." Scott keeps saying over the neck of an aconite-spiked beer. "Kira's my _wife_." They're planning some sort of stupid dance-entrance to the reception hall, and Stiles _was_ mad about it, but he's had a few beers and his best friend is fucking married, so sure, he'll dance like a fool with Kira's maid of honor, Jimena, a thoroughly terrifying skinwalker protégé who had vouched for Kira's fitness to come home.

 

"You ready?" He asks, and she smirks and picks up her bouquet. Her breath smells like whiskey and desert dust, and she's eyeing him in a way that seems downright predatory. He makes a fool of himself, flailing, sliding on his knees across the parquet dance floor, but it's worth it to hear Isaac whooping off to the side, worth it to catch the way his dad's eyes seem bright and warm where he sits at the family table between Melissa and Grandma McCall.

 

Back when he lived here, it seemed like they were all alone. But the banquet hall - decorated in cheap gauze curtains and string lights, but still warm and glowing and lovely - is full to bursting. Chris Argent is kept carefully separate from their supernatural guests, Jackson has deigned to return with his husband in tow, Deaton is there, and some of his colleagues that they've called over the years, both sides of the Martin family, what remains of Satomi's pack, Melissa's co-workers from the hospital and all the sheriff's deputies, Mrs. Backton who's lived next door to the McCalls for thirty years and her boys, all grown with families of their own. And then Kira's guests, a patchwork group of people from Noshiko's long life and many travels, a fair number of school staff members from Mr. Yukimura's days at BHHS, neighbors and friends and relatives that Stiles is introduced to briefly in buffet lines and bathroom queues.

 

So, yeah, it's warm and bustling in this banquet hall, and Stiles is feeling a little stifled by the crowd, and a little safer because of it. He catches himself searching faces at the reception, unwilling to admit what he's looking for. He wouldn't even know to look if Scott hadn't been cagey about letting him help with invitations - that meant he'd had to dig through the whole pile, and found one addressed to "Derek and Cora Hale" in Kira's untidy script, buried at the very bottom.

 

There was a New York address on the card. Stiles wonders where it's been kept - out of his sight - all these years. Melissa's floral patterned address book, maybe, the one that stays on the shelf in the kitchen. He was never suspicious enough to check.

 

It's a long flight from New York. There's no way Derek came this far, after this long, with no RSVP.

 

Stiles downs his drink anyway.

 

\--

 

There's dancing on the parquet floors, but Stiles is feeling cotton-wrapped and slow. A few too many drinks, he's beginning to think. So he's parked himself at a side table in a quieter corner with a glass of water to sober up. That's where Lydia finds him, ten minutes later. Her hair's just a little frizzy - it's hot in here, humid - but her makeup hasn't budged and she's swirling red wine in her glass.

 

"Sulking?" She asks, just loud enough to be heard over the bass.

 

"Sobering." He corrects, taking another sip of water.

 

"And then back to the party, I assume."

 

"Well, yeah - best man duties." Stiles shrugs. "You look nice, Lyds."

 

"Don't say that." Lydia laughs, but she doesn't seem to mean it. Her lipstick matches her wine, he realizes.

 

"Why not?"

  
"You know why not." She corrects severely, and sits down beside him. She sets her glass down with a resolute _thunk_ and doesn't say another word. He stares at his shoes, thinking for a cowardly second that maybe she'll go away. Instead, she stays, crosses her ankles and bobs one high-heeled foot to the music.

 

"I keep thinking - what if I could go back to the beginning of sophomore year and tell myself I'd end up _here_?" He says, just to fill the creeping silence.

 

"At your best friend's wedding?"

 

"At a wedding where Scott, a werewolf, has married a practically-immortal kitsune, and having awkward, post-breakup smalltalk with you." He shakes his head and runs a hand through his already-disheveled hair. "He'd lose his tiny mind."

 

"And what about five years ago? When you left for Virginia?" Lydia asks, sipping wine and refusing to meet his eyes.

 

"I'd be - well, none of us expected Kira to come back, not so soon." He hedges. She makes a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement. He knows what she's getting at. Five years ago he'd finally gotten what he'd wanted all through high school. Lydia Martin. Goddess, genius, badass - not, necessarily, in that order.

 

(Only to lose it all scant months later - throw it away, really, for a few fumbling nights sleeping in the backseat of the Jeep, a cross-country roadtrip to return like heroes, punctuated by Derek Hale's hazel eyes and heavy hands.)

 

"And when Kira came home - what then?"

 

He finishes his water, just to bide time. "We weren't on speaking terms, then."

 

"You _hated me_ , then." She says, and that's it - the punch in the gut he's been waiting for since he texted her three months ago, trying to reestablish diplomatic channels before the wedding. The accusation that's been hanging in the air since, years ago, he took her hands and said 'I don't think this is gonna work, Lyds, I'm-'

 

"I never - Lydia, I _never_ hated you, I couldn't." He says. There's a small, removed part of him that thinks ' _We shouldn't be doing this now_.' but he's not quite sober enough to listen. "You were everything I was supposed to want, and kind and brave and _brilliant_ on top of that." He sighs. "I loved you."

 

She sighs and presses a single, well-manicured finger to the tiny wrinkle between her eyes. "That was the problem, Stiles - no, you didn't."

 

"I _did_." He says, pushing his empty glass away just for something emphatic to do. "Just - just not the right way."

 

They've left it unspoken, all these years, exactly how he was supposed to love her, and how he didn't. She'd made a comment, once, during a late-night Skype session in Quantico that he really did seem to have mellowed out part of the way through high school - like he wasn't obsessing over her anymore. 'How did it feel to finally just...' She'd giggled 'Relax?'

 

His mind had raced to blue-red-blue eyes and the delicate arc of a triskelion tattoo, and breathless nights where he'd woken up twisted in his bedsheets, convinced he knew how that ink tasted when he traced it with his tongue. 'Freeing,' he'd laughed instead, 'it was nice to just kind of _be_.'

 

He'd never been wound quite so tight.

 

"I think maybe we should talk about this later." He finally says. Earlier, cutting her off would have been courageous, but now it just feels like a cop out.

 

"I think we probably won't." She says dryly, and finishes her wine.

 

"I _am_ sorry. And I meant it - mean it." He says, hoping she'll hear the honesty in his voice. "You're beautiful, and I love you. And I wish I could do it right."

 

She cocks her head, reading him like a goddamn book, like she always has. She face doesn't change much, but there could be a hint of a smile, there, a sad one. She purses her lips, and then taps the base of her glass against the table twice. "Me too." She says, and then she's gone.

 

\--

 

Another ten minutes later, and he's feeling _uncomfortably_ sober, so he threads around the edge of the room, aiming for the cash bar. In the center of the crowd, Scott and Kira are squabbling over who gets to dance with Liam at the next slow song - Stiles' money is on Kira, at this point - and Lydia has struck up a conversation with Jimena, the skinwalker maid of honor. His dad is chatting with Chris Argent, sipping what looks like whiskey but is probably apple juice. Stiles pays for his beer and steps out the french doors into the cool night.

 

The gardens are small and not so well kept, but there are strings of lights in the trees and a few stone benches, so it's as good a place as any to sit. He takes a long draw from the bottle and picks at the lichen on the bench. It crumbles under his fingers, and he thinks of _letharia vulpina_ , and then he tries very hard to think about - well, anything else.

 

The music's changed, inside. Another slow song.

 

"Stiles?"

 

He cranes his head back and - well, Kira must have gotten Liam, because it's Scott, etched in gold against the hall behind him. "Yeah?"

 

"Everything okay?" Scott asks. He lets his eyes go red as he picks his way across the garden - easier to see, and he's got nothing to hide here.

 

"Yeah, just needed some air, you know." Stiles wiggles the beer bottle, takes another sip, as Scott sinks onto the bench next to him.

 

"I saw you talking to Lydia, I just-"

 

"It's fine, man. She and I'll have it out eventually, but not tonight." He bumps Scott's shoulder.

 

"I got _married_." Scott repeats, for what might be the fiftieth time.

 

"Indeed you did." Stiles laughs. "Picked a good one, too."

 

Scott chuckles, taps his knuckles together. "She really picked me, you know."

 

"Well, yeah, I never said she was smart-" Scott elbows him in the side, and he retaliates with a full-body bump. Scott's arm snakes around him, inhuman-fast, and pulls him into a headlock. "Illegal use of werewolf powers, fifteen yard penalty, get - get off me, come on, man, I've got to give the tux back-" he laughs, breathless, until it's just Scott's arm, wrapped firm and warm around his shoulders.

 

"I wouldn't have wanted to do it without you."

 

"I wouldn't have let you." Stiles says, mock-solemn. They sit like that a while - maybe a minute, maybe ten. Scott's always been physical, but the bite turned it all up to eleven. He likes to be close, likes to _feel_ that everyone is safe and whole. It peaceful until Stiles notices the way Scott's head is tilted. He used to make dog jokes about it, but there's something still and serious about Scott's face that keeps him quiet.

 

"Stay here." Scott says, soft, and gets to his feet, walking out towards the low stone wall that marks the edge of the garden. Stiles strains to listen - maybe it's nothing, a raccoon in the brush, an owl - but he can't hear a thing. It's starting to feel tense when Scott flashes his eyes out into the dark and, from somewhere on the treeline, there's a blue flash in return.

 

 _Killer_ , he thinks, and stays still, on the off chance he hasn't been noticed.

 

Unless.

 

Malia wouldn't come. She's too territorial for this, even now. But there's one other set of eyes that color. Stiles finds that, as if by magic, he's on his feet, drifting forward -

 

"-Stiles, I said just stay-" Scott has a hand out towards his chest. He's turned his back on whoever's out there, which means they're not an enemy, not a threat, but he's still _worried_  which means-

 

Stiles is considering stepping over the wall when he registers motion, a shadow in the dim edges where the fairy lights barely reach. He knows, already, but can't seem to quiet the wild rhythm in his heart as the shape moves closer, resolves itself into Derek Hale.

 

They lock eyes for just a second too long - it interrupts Derek's stride, he hovers one foot over the ground for a beat - before Derek turns to Scott, shakes his outstretched hand over the low wall.

 

"Congratulations, Scott." He says warmly, and he _smiles_ like the sun. Scott leans back before smiling in return, like he's surprised. He's never seen Derek this happy, the poor bastard. "I'm sorry I didn't respond to the invite, I didn't know I'd be in town until this week."

 

"It's fine - we're happy to have you here." Scott says, and pulls Derek into an awkward, over-the-wall hug. He glances sideways at Stiles, and then at the doors. "I'll just, uh, go get Kira. Might take me a minute."

 

"He's still not subtle, is he?" Derek asks, low and laughing.

 

"No, he - he never was." Stiles manages lamely, still unable to look away. Derek's here, in a well-fitted tuxedo and nice shoes. He's less bulky than he was five years ago, like he's finally laid off the insane workout routine. And the change that had started then - a more relaxed, open Derek - it's complete now. He's practically lounging against the low stone wall, smiling softly, looking perfectly comfortable.

 

"Well, some things never change." Derek chuckles, and Stiles has never seen Derek be _nonchalant_ but here they are. In a garden, at Scott's wedding - Stiles speechless, Derek nonchalant.

 

"Some things do." He points out impulsively. Derek seems to consider that for a second. Inside, the song switches - something fast paced, and in Spanish, for Scott's tias and their daughters.

 

"It's good to see you." Derek admits, and his voice does that thing again - it's low and warm, genuine.

 

"You too." Stiles replies, too fast, and can't find it in himself to be embarrassed. "Do you want to -" he gestures to the wall and Derek plants a palm and hops over it easily, then straightens out his jacket. Stiles rocks on his heels for a second, then thinks _fuck it_ and goes for the hug.

 

Scott had tried to explain, once, what it felt like being close to pack. He'd stumbled through it, but the closest he could get was to say it felt like sunlight, but _inside_ him. Stiles hadn't understood it then, but he does now. He has, since he hesitantly folded down the back seats of the Jeep, has since he had a broad pair of hands bracketing his face, Derek Hale's mouth an inch from his own, the ghost of his breath against his lips. He understands now, feels it now, a golden, buzzing glow just under his skin that makes him feel grounded and safe, like he hasn't in five years.

  
They let go, Derek's hand sliding off the back of Stiles' neck and Stiles' arms unlocking from around his waist. Stiles steps back, unsure of what to say, when Derek turns towards to door.

 

Kira rushes out, more agile in her knee-length reception dress, and flings herself at Derek. He catches her without hesitation and spins her, and Scott comes to Stiles' side.

 

"I didn't think he'd come." Scott breathes in his ear, trying not to be heard, and Stiles nods a little numbly.

 

"I saw the invitation." He whispers as quietly as he can. Scott raises an eyebrow. "You were being secretive, so I went through all your stuff. I know it's bad parenting, but damn it, I'm trying to raise you right." Scott smiles at the joke, even if it's weak. "I understand, though. I'm not mad."

 

There's a loud shout inside, and suddenly Isaac is barreling through the French doors - he must have caught the scent from inside. He crashes into Derek so hard Stiles is afraid one of them will break a rib, but after that, there's no stopping the rest of the wedding from spilling into the tiny garden to welcome home another of Beacon Hills' prodigal sons. Chris gives him a firm handshake that turns into a one-armed hug, Jordan Parish offers him a beer, Melissa fusses, Jackson looks pleased, against all odds, to see his alpha. It's sort of heartwarming and sort of heartwrenching, especially when he and Lydia fall into orbit, exchanging knowing looks - hers in an accusation, his an apology.

 

Stiles, for his part, hangs around the edges of the crowd, taking a beer when it's offered, answering Jimena's questions about how everyone knows each other in hushed tones. Scott stops by at regular intervals, ostensibly to make sure Stiles hasn't had a mental break, so it's surprising when Kira appears at his elbow.

 

He hasn't been home, much, since she returned, and he's not quite used to the new Kira. She's a little different now. Still happy, still bubbly, of course, but there's a depth to her that wasn't there before. Back in the day, she was intimidating like a downed power line - he was never certain whether she was going to be dangerous or not. Now she walks with confidence. She told him, one night over white wine and wedding prep, that she has three tails now. He wonders if that accounts for all the changes.

 

"I stole this from his pocket." She says, and offers him a matchbook. He flips it over to see the logo on the back - Cedar Ridge Inn, a bed and breakfast about five miles out of town.

 

"I could have just asked where he was staying." Stiles laughs, pocketing the matches.

 

"True," Kira says, grinning, "but he got to make a dramatic entrance - I thought you deserved a shot."

 

\--

 

Derek makes his way inside, eventually, and is introduced to Scott's tias and Noshiko's various supernatural acquaintances, some of whom, it turns out, knew his mother. Kira dotes on Stiles, Isaac dotes on Derek, and Melissa and Chris slow dance when then think no one is paying attention. It's - nice.

 

Stiles stops drinking and slowly sobers up as the near-strangers leave and their circle narrows down to the most familiar faces. Scott and Kira hold hands, Liam and Mason are arguing over something dumb at a corner table while Corey contemplates disappearing - literally. Chris, Deaton, his dad, and Rafe McCall are huddled over a table speaking in hushed tones, and shooing away anyone that bothers their conversation. Stiles has it on good authority (Isaac) that they're planning nothing more sinister than a poker night next week. It's strange and good, and though there's always someone to talk to, if he wants, he finds himself flitting around the edges as he sobers up, settling back into his own skin and marvelling at how they all managed to get here - alive, for the most part, and not even that fucked up.

 

Well.

 

Most of them.

 

Scott comes up to him and bumps his shoulder, and Stiles leans into it, watching his friend's face relax by degrees as he takes on that warm, golden feeling.

 

"I think Kira and I are going to head to the hotel." He says. "It's been a long day."

 

"No shit."

  
"I just wanted to say - there's a lot I want to say." Scott smiles, and then yawns. "And I'll figure out how to say it all, eventually, but for tonight… You're my brother, Stiles, thank you for everything."  
 

Stiles pulls him in for a hug, not sure if he's laughing or crying. Scott buries his face in his neck and squeezes, and Stiles feels - just for a second - that safewarmgrounded feeling he knows Scott's getting. "I love you, man." He mutters, and Scott claps him twice on the back.

 

"You too."

 

"Now go take care of your wife." Stiles teases, and then opens his arms for another hug from Kira.

 

"We have a spare bedroom, at the house, you know." She says.

 

"Is that an invitation to visit, or move in?"  
 

"Both. Neither." She pulls back a little to look him in the eye. "You're the only one in the pack that didn't come back to Beacon Hills." She reminds him, and gives his arm a squeeze. "We miss you."

 

Stiles sighs. "I still need time, I still need… I don't know." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I still need to figure out who I am _without_ all this before I can deal with it again."

 

"We're still here, when you do." She reminds him. Then she taps his front pocket, where the matchbook is. "And don't forget about this, either."

 

"Yes, ma'am." He says, and salutes.

 

The room is almost empty, the music is off. The silence feels heavy in his ears, around his shoulders, as he says goodbye to the rest of the pack, to Chris and Melissa and Parish. Derek's off to the side as well, chatting errantly with Isaac. Stiles keeps a respectful distance, but the moment Isaac notices him, he pats Derek's shoulder and moves along.

 

"Heading out?" He asks Derek.

 

"Soon, yeah."

 

"Here," Stiles digs in his pocket for the matchbook, and offers it to Derek, "you should take this back."

 

"Where did you…?"  
  
"Kira stole it." Stiles shrugs. "She wanted -" They're in a room full of supernatural eavesdroppers, he can practically see Liam listening "- well, she wanted to prove she could, I guess."

 

"Very impressive." Derek says, taking the matchbook and turning it once-twice-three times in his hand before pocketing it.

 

"I'll be in town for a few days, I'll see you around?" He offers, scrubbing a fidgety hand through his hair.

 

"I leave tomorrow night, actually." Derek says, his voice a little weighty. Stiles watches him thumb the ridge of the matchbox through his pants. "So maybe not."

 

"Maybe. It's - it's been good to see you, Derek." Stiles says, earnestly. He wants to hug Derek, but he doesn't want to make a scene, doesn't want to draw attention. Maybe no one else cares, but he feels… Scrutinized. Everyone left in the room knows exactly what ended his relationship with Lydia, except maybe Chris, maybe Parish. Instead, he drops a hand on Derek's shoulder and squeezes lightly, delights in the way Derek's shoulder rises to meet him, the way he leans into the touch.

 

"You too." Derek says, raising his arm under Stiles' to sort of clasp at his waist. It should be awkward - it is awkward, a little - but he doesn't mind.

 

The Sheriff is waiting by the door, in his nicest pants, with his tie loosened around his neck and top button undone. He looks at Stiles with a furrowed brow. It could be worry, it could be pride, it's hard to know and Stiles isn't willing to ask.

 

"Ready to go?" Stiles nods the affirmative and throws an arm over his dad's shoulders. They're of a height, now, Stiles maybe a little taller (he never wants to know, never wants to be, not really), and they leave the hall in a companionable silence, out into the night. It's cool and humid, cloudless, and Stiles wants to stop in the parking lot and number the stars. Instead, they pile into the car and his dad pauses before he turns the engine over. "Are we making any stops along the way?"

 

"No." Stiles says. "Not tonight."

 

Instead, he sleeps in his childhood bedroom, burying his face in the familiar smell of his mom's favorite fabric softener and listening to the symphony of pops and creaks as the house settles around him. It's familiar and alien, all at once, and he's got this sweet ache settled just below his sternum. He doesn't cry, not really, but his eyes are wetter than usual from the moment he strips down to his boxers until, he presumes, the moment he falls into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dappledawndrawn on Tumblr, come say hi!


End file.
